‘“Come on, Clem,” he says, an’ he very rarely give me me own name. “You aren’t afraid, are you?” he says. “It’s just as short, an’ if Jerry starts up again, he won’t waste stuff here. He knows it’s abandoned.”
“Who’s afraid now?” I says. “Me for one,” says he. “1 don’t want my leaf spoiled at the last minute.” Then ’e wheels round an’ speaks that bit you said come out Burial Service.’
For some reason Keede repeated it in full, slowly: ‘If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus, what advantageth it me, if the dead rise not?’
‘That’s it,’ said Strangwick. ‘So we went down French End together – everything froze up an’ quiet, except for their creakin’s. I remember thinkin’—‘ his eyes began to flicker.
‘Don’t think. Tell what happened,’ Keede ordered.
‘Oh! Beg y’ pardon! He went on with his braziers, hummin’ his hymn, down Butcher’s Row. Just before we got to the old dressin’-station he stops and sets ’em down an’ says: “Where did you say she was, Clem? Me eyes ain’t as good as they used to be.”
‘“In ’erbed at Orne,” I says. “Come on down. It’s perishin’ cold, an I’m not due for leaf.”
‘“Well, I am,” ’e says. “I am…” an’ then – give you me word I didn’t recognize the voice – he stretches out ‘is neck a bit, in a way ’e ’ad, an’ he says: “Why, Bella!” ’e says. “Oh, Bella!” ’e says. “Thank Gawd!” ’e says. Just like that! an’ then I saw – I tell you I saw -– Auntie Armine herself standin’ by the old dressin’-station door where first I’d thought I’d seen her. He was lookin’ at ’eran’ she was lookin’ at him. I saw it, an’ me soul turned over inside me because-because it knocked out everything I’d believed in. I ‘ad nothin’ to lay ‘old of, d’ye see? an’ ’e was lookin’ at ’eras though he could ‘ave et ‘er, an’ she was lookin’ at ’im the same way, out of ’ereyes. Then he says: “Why, Bella,” ’e says, “this must be only the second time we’ve been alone together in all these years.” an’ I saw ’erhalf hold out her arms to ’im in that perishin’ cold. an’ she nearer fifty than forty an’ me own aunt! You can shop me for a lunatic tomorrow, but I saw it – I saw ’eranswerin’ to his spoken word!…Then ’e made a snatch to unsling ‘is rifle. Then ’e cuts ‘is hand away saying: “No! Don’t tempt me, Bella. We’ve all Eternity ahead of us. An hour or two won’t make any odds.” Then he picks up the braziers an’ goes on to the dug-out door. He’d finished with me. He pours petrol on ’em, an’ lights it with a match, an’ carries ’em inside, flarin’. All that time Auntie Armine stood with ’erarms out – an’ a look in ’erface! I didn’t know such things was or could be! Then he comes out an’ says: “Come in, my dear”; an’ she stoops an’ goes into the dug-out with that look on her face – that look on her face! an’ then ’e shuts the door from inside an’ starts wedgin’ it up. So ‘elp me Gawd, I saw an’ ’eard all these things with my own eyes an’ ears!’
He repeated his oath several times. After a long pause Keede asked him if he recalled what happened next.
‘It was a bit of a mix-up, for me, from then on. I must have carried on – they told me I did, but – but I was – I felt a – a long way inside of meself, like – if you’ve ever had that feelin’. I wasn’t rightly on the spot at all. They woke me up sometime next morning, because ’e ’adn’t showed up at the train; an’ some one had seen him with me. I wasn’t ‘alf cross-examined by all an’ sundry till dinner-time.
‘Then, I think, I volunteered for Dearlove, who ‘ad a sore toe, for a front-line message. I had to keep movin’, you see, because I hadn’t anything to hold on to. Whilst up there. Grant informed me how he’d found Uncle John with the door wedged an’ sand-bags stuffed in the cracks. I hadn’t waited for that. The knockin’ when ’e wedged up was enough for me. Like Dad’s coffin.’
‘No one told me the door had been wedged.’ Keede spoke severely.
‘No need to black a dead man’s name, sir.’
‘What made Grant go to Butcher’s Row?’
‘Because he’d noticed Uncle John had been pinchin’ charcoal for a week past an’ layin’ it up behind the old barricade there. So when the ‘unt began, he went that way straight as a string, an’ when he saw the door shut, he knew. He told me he picked the sand-bags out of the cracks an’ shoved ‘is hand through and shifted the wedges before anyone come along. It looked all right. You said yourself, sir, the door must ave blown to.’
‘Grant knew what Godsoe meant, then?’ Keede snapped.
‘Grant knew Godsoe was for it; an’ nothin’ earthly could ‘elp or ‘inder. He told me so.’
‘And then what did you do?’
‘I expect I must ‘ave kept on carryin’ on, till headquarters give me that wire from Ma – about Auntie Armine dyin’.’
‘When had your aunt died?’
‘On the mornin’ of the twenty-first. The mornin’ of the twenty-first! That tore it, d’ye see? As long as I could think, I had kep’ tellin’ myself it was like those things you lectured about at Arras when we was billeted in the cellars – the Angels of Möns, and so on. But that wire tore it.’
‘Oh! Hallucinations! I remember. And that wire tore it?’ said Keede.
‘Yes! You see’ – he half lifted himself off the sofa – ‘there wasn’t a single gor-dam thing left abidin’ for me to take hold of, here or hereafter. If the dead do rise – and I saw ’em – why – why, anything can happen. Don’t you understand?’
He was on his feet now, gesticulating stiffly.
‘For I saw ‘er,’ he repeated. ‘I saw ’im an’ ’er– she dead since mornin’ time, an’ he killin’ ‘imself before my livin’ eyes so’s to carry on with ’erfor all Eternity – an’ she ‘oldin’ out ’erarms for it! I want to know where I’m at! Look ‘ere, you two – why stand we in jeopardy every hour?’
‘God knows,’ said Keede to himself.
‘Hadn’t we better ring for some one?’ I suggested. ‘He’ll go off the handle in a second.’
‘No, he won’t. It’s the last kick-up before it takes hold. I know how the stuff works. Hul-lo!’
Strangwick, his hands behind his back and his eyes set, gave tongue in the strained, cracked voice of a boy reciting. ‘Not twice in the world shall the gods do thus,’ he cried again and again.
‘And I’m damned if it’s goin’ to be even once for me!’ he went on with sudden insane fury. ‘I don’t care whether we ‘ave been pricin’ things in the windows…Let ’ersue if she likes! She don’t know what reel things mean. I do – I’ve ‘ad occasion to notice ’em…No, I tell you! I’ll ‘ave ’em when I want ’em, an’ be done with ’em; but not till I see that look on a face…that look…I’m not takin’ any. The reel thing’s life an’ death. It begins at death, d’ye see. She can’t understand…Oh, go on an’ push off to Hell, you an’ your lawyers. I’m fed up with it – fed up!’
He stopped as abruptly as he had started, and the drawn face broke back to its natural irresolute lines. Keede, holding both his hands, led him back to the sofa, where he dropped like a wet towel, took out some flamboyant robe from a press, and drew it neatly over him.
‘Ye-es. That’s the real thing at last,’ said Keede. ‘Now he’s got it off his mind, he’ll sleep. By the way, who introduced him?’
‘Shall we go and find out?’ I suggested.
‘Yes; and you might ask him to come here. There’s no need for us to stand to all night.’
So I went to the Banquet, which was in full swing, and was seized by an elderly, precise Brother from a South London Lodge, who followed me, concerned and apologetic. Keede soon put him at his ease.
‘The boy’s had trouble,’ our visitor explained. ‘I’m most mortified he should have performed his bad turn here. I thought he’d put it be’ind him.’
‘I expect talking about old days with me brought it all back,’ said Keede. ‘It does sometimes.’
‘Maybe! Maybe! But over
and above that, Clem’s had post-war trouble too.’
‘Can’t he get a job? He oughtn’t to let that weigh on him, at his time of life,’ said Keede cheerily.
‘Tisn’t that – he’s provided for – but’ – he coughed confidentially behind his dry hand – ‘as a matter of fact, Worshipful Sir, he’s – he’s implicated for the present in a little breach of promise action.’
‘Ah! That’s a different thing,’ said Keede.
‘Yes. That’s his reel trouble. No reason given, you understand. The young lady in every way suitable, an’ she’d make him a good little wife too, if I’m any judge. But he says she ain’t his ideel or something. No getting at what’s in young people’s minds these days, is there?’
‘I’m afraid there isn’t,’ said Keede. ‘But he’s all right now. He’ll sleep. You sit by him, and when he wakes, take him home quietly…. Oh, we’re used to men getting a little upset here. You’ve nothing to thank us for, Brother – Brother—‘
‘Armine,’ said the old gentleman. ‘He’s my nephew by marriage.’
‘That’s all that’s wanted!’ said Keede.
Brother Armine looked a little puzzled. Keede hastened to explain. ‘As I was saying, all he wants now is to be kept quiet till he wakes.’
GOW’S WATCH
ACT V. SCENE 3
After the Battle. The PRINCESS by the Standard on the Ravelin,
Enter Gow, with the Crown of the Kingdom.
GOW: Here’s earnest of the Queen’s submission.
This by her last herald – and in haste.
PRINCESS: ’twas ours already. Where is the woman?
GOW: Fled with her horse. They broke at dawn.
Noon has not struck, and you’re Queen questionless.
PRINCESS: By you – through you. How shall I honour you?
GOW: Me? But for what?
PRINCESS: For all – all – all –
Since the realm sunk beneath us! Hear him!
‘For what?’
Your body ‘twixt my bosom and her knife,
Your lips on the cup she proffered for my death;
Your one cloak over me, that night in the snows
We held the Pass at Bargi. Every hour
New strengths, to this most unbelievable last.
‘Honour him?’ I will honour-will honour you-…
’Tis at your choice.
GOW: Child, mine was long ago.
(Enter FERDINAND, as from horse.)
But here’s one worthy honour. Welcome, Fox!
FERDINAND: And to you, Watchdog. This day clenches all.
We’ve made it and seen it.
GOW: Is the city held?
FERDINAND: Loyally. Oh, they’re drunk with loyalty yonder.
A virtuous mood. Your bombards helped ’em to it…
But here’s my word for you. The Lady Frances—
PRINCESS: I left her sick in the city. No harm, I pray.
FERDINAND: Nothing that she called harm.
In truth, so little
That (To GOW) I am bidden tell you, she’ll be here
Almost as soon as I.
GOW: She says it?
FERDINAND: Writes.
This. (Gives him letter.) Yester eve. ’twas given me by the priest—
He with her in her hour.
GOW: SO? (Reads) So it is.
She will be here. (To FERDINAND) And all is safe in the city?
FERDINAND: As thy long sword and my lean wits can make it.
You’ve naught to stay for. Is it the road again?
GOW: Ay. This time, not alone…She will be here.
PRINCESS: I am here. You have not looked at me awhile.
GOW: The rest is with you, Ferdinand…Then free.
PRINCESS: And at my service more than ever. I claim –
(Our wars have taught me) – being your Queen, now, claim
You wholly mine.
GOW: Then free…She will be here! A little while—
PRINCESS: (TO FERDINAND). He looks beyond, not at me.
FERDINAND: Weariness.
We are not so young as once was. Two days’ fight –
A worthy servitor – to be allowed
Some freedom.
PRINCESS: I have offered him all he would.
FERDINAND: He takes what he has taken.
(The Spirit of the LADY FRANCES appears to GOW.)
GOW: Frances!
PRINCESS: Distraught!
FERDINAND: An old head-blow, maybe. He has dealt in them. GOW: (To the SPIRIT). What can the Grave have against us, O my Heart,
Comfort and light and reason in all things
Visible and invisible—my one God?
Thou that wast I these barren unyoked years
Of triflings now at an end! Frances!
PRINCESS: She’s old.
FERDINAND: True. By most reckonings old. They must keep other count.
PRINCESS: He kisses his hand to the air!
FERDINAND: His ring, rather, he kisses. Yes – for sure – the ring.
GOW: Dear and most dear. And now, those very arms. (Dies.)
PRINCESS: Oh, look! He faints. Haste, you! Unhelm him! Help!
FERDINAND: Needless. No help
Avails against that poison. He is sped.
PRINCESS: By his own hand? This hour? When I had offered—
FERDINAND: He had made other choice – an old, old choice,
Ne’er swerved from, and now patently sealed in death.
PRINCESS: He called on – the Lady Frances was it? Wherefore?
FERDINAND: Because she was his life. Forgive, my friend – (Covers
GOW’S face).
God’s uttermost beyond me in all faith,
Service and passion – if I unveil at last
The secret. (To the PRINCESS) Thought – dreamed you, it was for you
He poured himself – for you resoldered the Crown?
Struck here, held there, amended, broke, built up
His multiplied imaginings for you?
PRINCESS: I thought – I thought he—
FERDINAND: Looked beyond. Her wish
Was the sole Law he knew. She did not choose
Your House should perish. Therefore he bade it stand.
Enough for him when she had breathed a word:
’twas his to make it iron, stone, or fire,
Driving our flesh and blood before his ways
As the wind straws. Her one face unregarded
Waiting you with your mantle or your glove-
That is the God whom he is gone to worship.
(Trumpets without. Enter the Prince’s HERALDS.)
And here’s the work of Kingship begun again.
These from the Prince of Bargi – to whose sword
You owe such help as may, he thinks, be paid…
He’s equal in blood, in fortune more than peer,
Young, most well favoured, with a heart to love—
And two States in the balance. Do you meet him?
PRINCESS: God and my Misery! I have seen Love at last.
What shall content me after?
UNTIMELY
Nothing in life has been made by man for man’s using
But it was shown long since to man in ages
Lost as the name of the maker of it.
Who received oppression and scorn for his wages-
Hate, avoidance, and scorn in his daily dealings-
Until he perished, wholly confounded.
More to be pitied than he are the wise
Souls which foresaw the evil of loosing
Knowledge or Art before time, and aborted
Noble devices and deep-wrought healings,
Lest offence should arise.
Heaven delivers on earth the Hour that cannot be thwarted,
Neither advanced, at the price of a world or a soul, and its Prophet
Comes through the blood of the vanguards who dreamed – too soon–
it had sounded.
The Eye of Allah
THE cantor of St Mod’s being far too enthusiastic a musician to concern himself with its library, the sub-cantor, who idolized every detail of the work, was tidying up, after two hours’ writing and dictation in the scriptorium. The copying-monks handed him in their sheets – it was a plain Four Gospels ordered by an abbot at Evesham – and filed out to vespers. John Otho, better known as John of Burgos, took no heed. He was burnishing a tiny boss of gold in his miniature of the Annunciation for his Gospel of St Luke, which it was hoped that Cardinal Falcodi, the papal legate, might later be pleased to accept.
‘Break off, John,’ said the sub-cantor in an undertone.
‘Eh? Gone, have they? I never heard. Hold a minute, Clement.’
The sub-cantor waited patiently. He had known John more than a dozen years, coming and going at St Mod’s, to which monastery John, when abroad, always said he belonged. The claim was gladly allowed, for, more even than other Fitz Othos, he seemed to carry all the arts under his hand, and most of their practical receipts under his hood.
The sub-cantor looked over his shoulder at the pinned-down sheet where the first words of the Magnificat were built up in gold washed with red-lac for a background to the Virgin’s hardly yet fired halo. She was shown, hands joined in wonder, at a lattice of infinitely intricate arabesque, round the edges of which sprays of orange-bloom seemed to load the blue hot air that carried back over the minute parched landscape in the middle distance.
‘You’ve made her all Jewess,’ said the sub-cantor, studying the olive-flushed cheek and the eyes charged with foreknowledge.
‘What else was Our Lady?’ John slipped out the pins. ‘Listen, Clement. If I do not come back, this goes into my Great Luke, whoever finishes it.’ He slid the drawing between its guard-papers.
‘Then you’re for Burgos again – as I heard?’
The Wish House and Other Stories Page 53